Legerdemain
by Altariel
Summary: Gandalf teaches young Faramir a trick or two.
1. Legerdemain

**Legerdemain**

 _Minas Tirith, August 2995 T.A._

The next time I visited Minas Tirith the city was sweltering under a cruel summer. Such had been the case since mid-May, I gathered as I passed up the circles. There was no green to be seen anywhere, only parched plants and hard white stone. I came to the Steward's House with great relief, and was brought into the library to await its master.

I wandered the room. There, in a quiet corner, sitting hunched over his desk, was a boy. He had his sleeves rolled up and he looked hot and tired. Stacked high in front of him was a large pile of grim-looking books. As I approached, I heard him muttering to himself. " _Malvegil, thirteen forty-nine… Argeleb the First, thirteen fifty-six… Araphor… No, that's not right… Arvegil…?_ " He scratched his head." _Oh, who is it…?_ "

 _Oh dear_ , I thought. When he checked inside the nearest book, he shook his head and rapped his knuckles against his temple. " _Come on, old brain. We can do this…_ " Once again, he tried to list the dates; once again, the run of names in the middle defeated him. He faltered. His shoulders slumped. " _Bother._ "

He fell back in his chair and stared out of the window at the evening. His eyes took on a wistful, dreamy look. When at length he did go back to his reading, he did not return to the big black book from which he had been studying. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he slid a slim blue volume out from the bottom of the pile. He opened it and his whole demeanour altered. His shoulders relaxed. He began to read peacefully, happily. _Much better_ , I thought. With a little rest, he would return to his dates refreshed.

"Lord Faramir," I said, softly.

He jumped and turned, but the alarm on his face was quickly replaced with delight. "Mithrandir!" he cried. He scrambled to his feet, and gave me the most careful and precise of bows, fist clenched and placed to his heart. "How good to see you again, sir! Please, will you sit?"

 _Fine manners_ , I thought. "Lord Faramir, a pleasure to see you again." I pondered the chair opposite his. The evening was very hot and the ride had been very long… "Yes," I said, sitting, "yes, thank you…"

He waited until I was comfortable before returning to his own chair. Yes, very fine manners; far beyond his years.

"What brings you to the city, sir?"

"The same as you, I think." I picked up the big black book. An account of the Kings of Arthedain. "A weighty business," I said, putting it back down. "But surely on a day like this your time would be better spent by the river!"

A look of longing passed over his face, and then he hung his head. "I'm afraid I've had too many such days this summer. I've been somewhat remiss in my studies. Father's displeased." He looked across the full desk and sighed. "Reading has been assigned," he said. "And there's a test each evening, before supper."

"Yes? And what happens if you fail the test?"

"No supper and an early night!" he said, pulling a face. "Ugh – like I am _six_ years old! I'd rather be thrashed and have done."

He must be what? Twelve? "Well, my lord," I said. "A scholar like you – I doubt there have too many been hungry nights."

"More than I would like. I fear tonight will be another." He rubbed his hand through his hair. "It's far too hot for this…" Then he remembered himself. "It's not so bad," he said, loyally. "I do like to learn…"

"It helps, however, if the conditions are propitious and the subject matter to one's taste, no?" I picked up the thin blue volume. "Hence, I imagine, your interest in this."

He flushed red and looked ashamed. "Please don't tell Father."

I snorted. _Unlikely_. I opened the book. A collection of verse from Arnor, very fine. "You have excellent taste."

"It's my favourite," he said, shyly. "But I shouldn't be reading it, not really… I don't want it taken away…"

Indeed not. "Well, Lord Faramir," I said, "perhaps I may assist. If you can force your attention back to your dates for a little longer, then I will hear you, and then we can read some of this together." I smiled at him. "Would that help?"

He heaved a grateful sigh. "I think so. Thank you, sir." He leaned back over his book.

"It might help," I added, "to picture the words upon the page."

As he studied, I examined the book. His mother's name was written in the front. No, he would not want to lose this. I read through. His grasp of Quenya must be very sound. After a while, I heard, from the court beyond the house, the ringing of the seventh bell after noon. "Shall I hear you now?"

"Please," he said. I nodded, and quickly and without fault he ran through the dates.

"Very well done!" I said. "Now – something gentler. Will you read to me? My old eyes are getting tired."

"I'd be delighted, sir!" He reached across to take the book – and then a voice spoke.

"Faramir."

He paled. He leapt to his feet. He looked guiltily, worriedly, around for the book of verse – but it was nowhere to be seen. A trick of mine; not difficult, but one that has certainly come in handy over the years. The boy looked bewildered, but not did not allow himself the indulgence for long. He had his father to attend to. For yes – there indeed was the Steward, frowning down at us. He looked greyer than I remembered, and grimmer. _Poor boy_ , I thought.

"Father," said his son. He gave his flawless bow and then stood stock still and straight.

The Steward looked from him to me, and then back at his child. "Faramir," he said, "I hope you have not been disturbing the Lord Mithrandir. I am sure he has plenty to keep him busy and I know you most certainly do."

"Not in the slightest," I said cheerfully. "We have had a most interesting conversation—"

"Conversation?" He frowned directly at his son, who was standing perfectly to attention: hands behind back, shoulders rigid, a bland expression on his face.

"About the north kingdoms." That, I thought, even covered the Arnorian verse. I would not want to involve the boy in a falsehood.

"I see." He took his son's chair. He leaned back, picked up the big black book, and sighed. His manner perfectly conveyed the message: _This hurts me far more than it hurts you_. He nodded at his son. "Go on…"

The boy rattled flawlessly through the dates. Hearing him, I felt oddly proud.

"Hmm," said his father, when he was done.

"Was that not correct?" said the boy, anxiously.

"No, no – all quite correct," the Steward said. He flicked through the book. After a moment, he said, absently, "Well done."

The boy heaved a sigh of relief. Once again, his father looked from him to me then back to his son, as if suspecting some collusion, but not quite able to put his finger on what. He shook his head and turned to me. "Well, Mithrandir, will you join me for dinner?"

"Gladly," I said.

He rose from his seat. "Faramir can bring you. I'll be there shortly." He glanced at his son. "You may join us tonight. You might hear something of use."

"Thank you, sir," the boy said, and watched his father leave. Only then did he sit down again. He flashed me a relieved look. "That was close." He bit his lip, clearly desperate to ask.

"Go on," I said.

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure. Then he whispered, " _Where did the book go?!_ "

"Ah," I said. "Do you suspect me of some conjuring trick?"

"If it were anyone else, sir – no!"

"Alas I must disappoint." I shook out my long wide sleeve, and the book dropped onto the table. "A simple sleight of the hand, nothing more." I passed him his book. "A trick which it might do you no harm to learn!"

He turned the book around in his hands, as if still suspecting some enchantment. "Perhaps not."

* * *

Dinner was a subdued affair. The Steward, I thought, looked much older than when I had last passed this way, and his manner was, if possible, somewhat sterner. I gave him news from the wider world (such as I was able), and he talked of his own affairs (such, I assume, as he was able). The boy sat silently throughout, listening attentively, and unobtrusively putting away a substantial supper. _Of course_ , I thought, _when next I come this way he will have grown. He will be a man._

At length, the Steward rose. "You must excuse me," he said. "I must return to my office for a few hours. Please make yourself comfortable. I hope to be able to join you later." His eye fell on his son, who, having come to the end of a second slice of apple pie, was looking quietly content with his lot. "Faramir," he said. "Bed."

The boy jumped out of his chair. He looked regretfully at me as he gave his perfect bow. "Good night, sir," he said.

"Good night, my lord," I said. "I hope we shall have time to speak tomorrow."

His eyes said _I'd like that_ , although he stayed quiet. Father and son turned to go and, as they left the room, I saw the man rest his hand upon the boy's shoulder, and – ever so slightly – the boy leaned towards him, but otherwise they did not touch.

* * *

I stayed a fortnight, well beyond the limits of the Steward's patience for me, I must admit. The heat became worse, and I fear I am not tidy… The days I spent in the city archives, and in the late afternoon, after the fourth bell, I would return to the house. There, in the library, straight from his archery practice, I would find the Steward's second son deep in his books. And so we would sit, and I would hear him, and then we would read together. Thus we made our way through the history of the north kingdoms, and also a fine selection of their verse. He was clever, this boy; attentive, meticulous, hard-working, and performed his duties in a way that made them not a burden but an honour. A fine son; a son to make a man proud. He was not going to like to go to war. But such were the times.

Each evening, at precisely the same time, shortly after the seventh bell (and how his habits helped!), the Steward would descend from his heights to hear his son's lesson, all the while glaring at me. By this, and various other tricks, I ensured his son's presence each evening at the dinner table, and each evening I expanded the scope of our conversation beyond what I think was usual. The Steward was irritated; the boy – even as he enjoyed his supper – was agog.

Perhaps it was these small successes that made us careless. But on my last evening, as we sat together in the library and he read faultlessly to me from his little blue book, we missed the warning bell. And there, before I knew it, was the Steward. Up jumped his son, and hastily I looked around—

But the book was nowhere to be seen. My heart thumping in my chest, I listened to him say his lesson, and the Steward departed, satisfied.

The boy sat down again.

"Well," I said. "That was close."

He smiled.

"Now," I said. "I know you are a quick study, but I can also see that your sleeves are rolled up. So _where did the book go_?"

His smile grew broader. Leaning across the desk, he retrieved, from behind my ear, a gold piece. He passed this to me. It had his father's face on it.

He waved his hand in front of my eyes. " _Magic_ ," he said.

* * *

 _Altariel, 23_ _rd_ _August 2018_


	2. Cheaters Never Prosper

**Cheaters Never Prosper**

 _For CarawynO_

* * *

The news that the Captain had been seen cheating at cards spread through the refuge like wildfire. A committee was hastily convened. Questions were asked. Answers were demanded. Denial was strong.

"I saw what I saw!" insisted Hallas. "And I saw him float that queen to the top of the deck!"

A close cross-examination followed. It seemed what had happened was this.

* * *

A gang of them had been on leave in the City. All but taken up residence in the Crossed Keys on the first level. Partway through the evening the Captain turned up, his brother in tow. Good: they all liked his brother. He always paid for the drinks. There was some consternation when they saw the Captain had nicked his right arm, just above the wrist, on the practice yard that morning. Stop fussing: it'll be fine.

Then the cards came out. Raise or fold. And the brothers went at it hammer and tongs. They all sat back and let them get on with it. None of them had seen anything like it. Who'd known the Captain had it in him? Brothers, eh? Bring out the best in you.

"And that," said Hallas, "that's when he did it. His wrist, you see. He couldn't move his wrist fast enough."

He'd won. He'd cheated, and he'd won. And the question now was - exactly how long had that been going on?

* * *

Mablung watched the company move rapidly from denial to bargaining, depression, and at last anger. Soon he would have to intervene.

He'd also seen what happened. He'd seen the Captain wince as he moved his wrist, slower than usual, and he'd caught the red flash of the card shift upwards. Well now. He'd known the Captain was a sneaky bastard, but he'd never guessed this. All these years. Sneaky, sneaky bastard.

The thing was, though, that the Captain-General had seen too. More than that, the Captain saw that he'd seen. Whereupon the brothers exchanged a series of extremely sharp looks.

 _He knows...  
He knows I know...  
He's always known...  
He didn't know I've always known..._

Then, without a word, they went back to the game. Over the next twenty minutes the Captain cleaned his brother out. Absolutely took him for every silver penny. Which, interestingly, was his only stroke of luck all night. After that: lost his form. All his winnings gone within the hour, into the cheerful grasping hands of his men. Bad luck, Captain. Should have quit when you were ahead, Captain. Never mind, Captain, you can afford it.

"You dolts," Mablung said. "Don't you know what he's been doing?"

Well, they knew exactly what he'd been doing, didn't they, and they wanted a word—

"Have a think," said Mablung. "Each one of you. When did he last win off you?"

They all had a think. Nobody could remember. In fact, nobody could remember it ever happening at all. The Captain never won at cards.

"He cheats to lose," said Mablung. "Except when he plays his brother. And then he plays you and all the Captain-General's money goes straight through him into the pockets of you ungrateful lot."

There was quiet for a while around the refuge. "Sneaky bastard," someone said. "Got to admire his nerve," someone else said. Then another voice piped up: "Didn't he go out again with his brother the following night?"

Mablung had never seen them move so fast. Table and chairs laid out within seconds. A pack of cards from nowhere. "Deal him in," said Hallas. "And someone get him out here right now."

* * *

 _Altariel, 23_ _rd_ _August 2018_


	3. Carry On Captain

**Carry On, Captain**

Afterwards, they walked back home together up the levels. They didn't always have to talk, but this time the silence wasn't particularly companionable. Somewhere on the fourth level, his brother said, "How's your wrist doing?"

"Fine. Sore. Fine."

The problem was that the first time he did it, he was angry. He'd gone to his brother for help – asked him for money. One of the men had a dying mother, and he couldn't afford to travel to see her. He thought that his brother of all people would understand about dying mothers. But his brother had said 'no'. Not because the money wasn't there – although it wasn't, not really – but because he couldn't make an exception. Everyone had a dying mother, or a dying father, or a dying somebody, and if you did it for one, you had to do it for everybody, and he couldn't help everybody. He couldn't.

He'd been furious with him. Absolutely furious. He never asked for anything, never. This wasn't even for himself – he never wanted anything. And he was still furious later, when they'd met at some hideous tavern on the third, and when the cards came out, he thought, _I'm going to take every single blasted penny that you have off you_. And he did, and he passed the money on, and nobody was any the wiser and everyone was happy, more or less.

After that – well, it wasn't as if he did it all the time. Only when he'd run out of other ideas, and in general he was very good at coming up with ideas. Except every so often. Every so often, he ran completely out of ideas, but people's mothers went on dying anyway, and he couldn't square the circle. So he went back to the one constant in his life, but because he'd been angry that first time, he didn't ask again. He took. And all the time, his brother had known, and he hadn't said a word either. He let him get on with it. Let him get away with it.

They walked silently along the sixth. They went into the tunnel that led up to the seventh. He couldn't see his brother's face, but there he was walking beside him, utterly solid, absolutely dependable.

"I'm sorry."

"That's all right," said his brother. "Nice to know you're not perfect." They came out into the court and passed the dead tree. They saluted the guards and his brother patted him on his shoulder. "At ease, Captain."

* * *

 _Altariel, 24_ _th_ _August 2018_


	4. Happy Families

**Happy Families**

"Oh, must we?" wailed Elboron, as his brother found the deck of cards. Of all the trials of his young and serious life, the flagrant cheating of most of his family was one of the hardest to bear. Mother was worst. Shameless.

He appealed to the highest authority in the room. His father: lord, prince, magistrate; surely the most upright man in two kingdoms.

"Father, they all cheat. It's unfair and it's not right."

"Yes," Father agreed. "They're a disgrace." He was shuffling the deck. It rippled and shifted before Bron's eyes. "The whole point is not to be seen."

* * *

 _Altariel, 25_ _th_ _August 2018_


	5. Hands of a Dealer

**Hands of a Dealer**

Hearing the King's voice within, Elboron hesitated at the door of his father's office rather than entering.

"The audience with the envoy from Rhûn, the meeting with the lord of Lossarnach over the proposed toll on the road, and also next month's courts of appeal... Are you sure this won't be too much on top of everything else, Faramir?"

"I'll cope."

Elboron tapped on the door and entered. The King greeted him cheerfully. He was shuffling a pack of cards. Father, eyes narrow, was watching his hands.

"But we'll play with my deck next time, I think," said the Steward.

* * *

 _For phyloxena_

 _Altariel, 26_ _th_ _August 2018_


End file.
